


Feels Like The End

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Desperation, Ficlet, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Sibling Incest, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has always been the one to tuck Sam into bed. This time is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feels Like The End

Dean has always been the one to tuck Sam into bed.

Dad is absent in mind and body, too busy pawing through dusty tomes and tracing maps with shaky fingertips, too busy trying to find the connection that will spark the final crusade to avenge Mom's death and alleviate this crushing weight from his shoulders, too busy to cast more than a second glance at his sons when he thinks he has found something new that will yield results this time, it _has_ to be something this time, so he requires a celebratory drink or four.

Just like with most things Sam-related, Dean takes the initiative; he gathers Sammy's warm four-year-old body, slack with sleep and his mouth open all wide and his eyelashes fluttering on the tops of his cheeks like tiny black fans, into his arms and carries him into their room. Dean is the one who lays Sam down and pulls the covers up to his chin, because he knows how Sam likes to burrow under the fluffy duvet like he's making a nest for himself, just like the way Dean used to tuck the blankets around him when he was a toddler.

The hair above Sam's ears and hanging over his forehead is curling in soft waves, and Dean finds his fingers there, brushing it back so his lips can settle in the dip of his brother's temple, chaste and soft and savoring the way the tip of his nose is buried in Sammy's hair because it's _Sam_ , and he smells like sunlight and that cheap floral shampoo that was the last one left in the dollar store.

It makes Dean's heart feel too big for his chest, like a balloon inflating under his ribs and stretching the membrane of his skin until he's about to burst with how much he loves his little brother, with how desperate he is to worm his way under the covers and mold himself along the line of Sam's back like they're the only ones left in the world, hidden by the blankets, a cocoon of safety and smiles and Sam's laughter for the rest of their days.

But Dad said no, Dad said Sammy had to start to sleep on his own, Dad said, Dad said, Dad said.

So Dean doesn't. He clambers into his own bed, shimmies under the sheets and turns on his side to trace the outline of Sam's face in the darkness, his eyes following the lines and curves and planes of skin and bone that he has memorized since before he knew anything else, and he doesn't remember anything else except for Sam, the world didn't _exist_ until Sam was born for all Dean is concerned.

He remembers Mom, a curtain of gold curls and the most gentle smile that still makes his heart sink down in his tummy, holding a bundle in her arms, humming as she lowered Sam down into the crib, nodding when Dean wanted to help, guiding his hands to tuck and tuck and tuck until Sammy's round pink face was all that was left of his body, the rest of him swathed in his baby blue blanket.

Dean remembers this and it hurts because he misses Mom, misses her so much that he could just sit and cry sometimes, but then he looks at Sam, and Sam looks at him, and he smiles that same gentle smile as Mom, and Dean decides he's okay, because he has Sam and that's enough.

Dean hasn't tucked Sam into bed for years. Sammy grew up, Sammy went away to school, Sammy's not Sammy anymore, it's _Sam_ he says, Sam is taller than Dean and it's not like he's gonna let Dean tuck him into bed like he used to.

But right now, Sam is in his arms. Sam is limp and Sam is cold and Sam is _Sammy_ , with his hair too long and sticking to the side of Dean's face from the misting rain, with his chin on Dean's shoulder as his head lolls back and forth, with his blood on Dean's hand when he pulls away from the dark spot at the bottom of Sam's jacket, _hey, look at me, it’s not even that bad, it’s not even that bad, alright? Sammy?_ , and Sam just gets colder and Dean can't breathe, but he's trying to, because he has to breathe for both of them now, two lungs not enough for two bodies but goddammit, he's gonna try, so Dean breathes and he smiles and he stutters it out, _gonna patch you up, okay, you'll be good as new, I'm gonna take care of you, I'm gonna take care of you_ , he doesn't know if it's rain or tears that are sliding down his cheeks, _that's my job right? Take care of my pain in the ass little brother?_ , Sam's not breathing anymore, _Sam? Sam?_ , and Dean watches that light fade away, the one beacon of hope that his heart has always pointed to, his North Star in this mess of a world so wracked with death and disease, it's gone, Sammy is gone, and he failed and Dean _can't breathe_.

Dean hasn't tucked Sam into bed for years, but he's doing it now, carrying Sam to a cot, stumbling under the weight of him in his arms, all six foot three of his baby brother, the same baby whose forehead Dean kissed, the same baby who was shoved into his arms as smoke burned his eyes, the same baby who wrapped a hand around Dean's pinky and didn't make a single sound as his mother burned and his father cried, all the same Sammy. Dean's laying Sam out on the mattress and Sam's eyes are closed, he could be sleeping, and Sam needs blankets, so Dean makes his numb hands paw through dressers and cabinets and rotting kitchen cupboards because, seriously, Sam needs _blankets_ , he's going to get cold and he doesn't like to be cold, he likes to nest and burrow and have Dean wrapped around him like a promise, and Dean has to keep his promise, this _one_ fucking promise he made to himself and Dad and God to protect his little brother, _where are the fucking blankets_?

Bobby's like a ghost, hovering in Dean's peripheral vision as he moves around the cabin, trying to talk, _son, he's gone_ , so Dean screams at him and he leaves, but he's back with food and alcohol a few hours later, and Dean corrodes the lining of his stomach with straight whiskey until the bottle is empty and he can't sit upright in his chair, slumping forward until he remembers the way Sam slumped into his arms, and then he's vomiting over the toes of his boots and he can hear Bobby crying.

It's been a day, a full twenty-four hours without Dean's light and heart and entire fucking world in a pair of slanted hazel eyes and Dean can't move from his chair. Bobby's still hovering, replacing cold food with hot, coming back soaked in mud to say he buried the bodies of Azazel's other kids, Christ, they're all just kids. Like Sam, _Sammy_ , who is on his back on this dirty cot with his hair flipping out above his ears, and suddenly Dean is on his knees, leaning over the metal bed frame to thread his fingers through the strands, to push them away from the pale skin at his temple, his lips finding that same dip that has always perfectly fit the shape of his mouth. When he inhales, there is no trace of sunlight or shampoo or Sam.

That's what breaks Dean, that's what shatters his skeleton and makes him collapse on his brother, sobs clawing out of his throat as his hands fumble under Sam's shoulders to bring him up to Dean's chest and rock him, back, forth, back, forth, back, forth, _Sammy, Sammy, Sammy_ , then his fingers are on Sam's face, stroking, thumb grazing Sam's bottom lip, then his mouth is, pressing kiss after kiss to cold, parted lips, because maybe Dean can breathe life back into his brother, maybe Sam will come back just to punch Dean in the face for being this sick, so Dean keeps kissing Sam, and Sam keeps not breathing, and Dean can just barely hear the click of the door as Bobby leaves.

It's been two days, a full forty-eight hours without Dean's home and other half and only reason for living, and Bobby asks Dean what he can do and Dean tells him to bring blankets. Dean drinks while Bobby is gone, drinks because he’s numb anyway, just a shell with his soul spread out in front of him on a dirty cot in the middle of nowhere with a hole in his back. When Bobby comes back, he doesn’t have blankets, he has food and the words _don’t you think maybe it’s time we bury Sam?_ on his lips, and Dean’s shaking his head, because no, not yet, not yet, there’s something Dean isn’t seeing, his vision is blurred because he can’t stop staring at his baby brother’s face but he isn’t going anywhere and Sam isn’t getting buried or burned because Dean’s going to figure this out, he has to because it’s _Sam_ , fuck you.

Dean explodes when Bobby tries to pull the apocalypse card, because does it look like he gives a shit what happens to the world, Bobby, look at this fucking cot, Dean’s world is right the fuck there and he isn’t moving, blinking, breathing, he isn’t fucking _breathing_ , Bobby, Dean’s world has already ended, let everything else burn. Bobby is gone and Dean is back in the chair, rocking himself back and forth with his hands pressed to his mouth, fighting against the words scalding his brain, the little seeds of truths that have burrowed in his mind and grown so much bigger over the years until they're spilling out in choked sobs,  _I just wanted you to be a kid,_   _I always tried to protect you, even from myself, God, Sammy, I shouldn't love you like this, but I do and I'm sorry and now you're gone, failed you too, I had one job and I screwed it up, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ , and Dean's stroking Sam's face again, fingers hovering over the spot on Sam's cheek where he knows his dimple would be, waiting, praying, hoping that Sam will open his eyes and grin like he used to when he was sixteen and say _gotcha, joke's on you, can't believe you fell for that, Dean_ , and then that the dimple will appear, but Sam just lies there, still cold, still pale, still dead.

Sam's dead.

Sam's dead and Dean can't breathe.

He can't breathe, except apparently he can, because he's alive enough to leave Sam for the first time in days, he's alive enough to careen his car down gravel until he finds a crossroad, he's alive enough to barter his life down year by year to this bitch who stinks of perfume and promise, he's alive enough to say _you'll bring him back?_ , and he's alive enough to hear her say  _I will_.

When he kisses her, she tastes like grave dirt and ash.

Dean can breathe again.

Dean steps through the door with his heart wedged in his throat. The first thing he sees is the dirty cot, empty except for a blotchy stain of rusted red, the second thing he sees is Sam,  _Sammy_ , staring at a mirror with a frown on his face and his eyes wide and bright and confused, the third thing he sees is Sam's chest rising and falling with breaths, real breaths, and Dean can't help it, he's lurching forward and his hands find Sam's cheeks and his lips find Sam's lips, and this time, Sam's mouth is warm and Dean doesn't need to give up the air in his chest because Sam has his own. 

Sam is breaking away and his face is red and his fingers are covering his mouth. Dean's trying to find it in himself to care that he probably just ruined everything, but he can't keep his eyes off the flush in Sam's cheeks, a sign that Sam's heart is beating, a sign that Sam is alive. Sam's voice is shaking,  _Dean, what the hell_ , Dean's is shaking even more, _happy to see you up and around, that's all_ , and Sam's always seen right through him, goddammit, eyebrows raising with an accompanying  _that's_ ** _all_** _?_ , so Dean turns and walks away and says  _you want something to eat? I'm starving_. 

Azazel is dead, hundreds of demons have just been released into the world, and Sam is crying because Dean has a year to live. All Dean can say is  _I had to look out for you, that's my job_ , and all Sam can do is stare at Dean like he's lost his mind, like he doesn't understand how Dean could care so little about his own life, but what Sam doesn't understand is that Sam  _is_ his life, and his ticket may be punched and his days numbered, but if Sam's going to get to keep breathing then it's all worth it.

Sam makes everything worth it. 

Then Sam's hands are cupping Dean's jaw and Dean can see Bobby and Ellen standing together over his brother's shoulder and he's thinking  _huh_ , right before Sam's lips touch his own. And right then, he knows, can feel it in the way Sam's tongue slips into his mouth, that this is an  _I love you_ of a different kind, this is  _I love you and I'm sorry that it isn't the same kind of love you have for me but I'm going to give you this anyway_. He pushes Sam away and he smiles big enough to hide the cracks in his heart and he tries to ignore the pain in Sam's eyes when he meets them. He gently pats Sam's cheek twice, because he never did it so Sam would do it back, he did it because he was selfish and needed to taste Sam's breath just that one time, to make sure that Sam was really alive, and that is his burden to bear. 

 _Well then_ , Dean says, eyes dancing between Bobby's and Ellen's and his brother's, whose face is still shadowed with despair,  _we got work to do_. 

And when they get a motel that night, far, far away from Cold Oak, South Dakota, when Dean is lifting the sheets back on the queen bed two feet away, Sam stops Dean with his hand on Dean's wrist. Sam pulls Dean down and fits him under the covers of his bed until they're indistinguishable from one another, just a tangle of legs and arms around chests and faces buried too close together. Sam is tight to Dean's side and his head is nestled under Dean's chin, and it's almost like an apology, which makes Dean want to laugh because _he's_ the one who should apologize, for Christ's sake, Sammy, c'mon, but neither of them speak. They just breathe. Sam lets Dean's hands reach down to tuck the blankets down along Sam's back like he remembers those early years, and Sam lets Dean's mouth find that dip of his temple, and when Dean settles back against his pillow, Sam tangles his fingers with Dean's and holds on tight as he falls asleep. Dean closes his eyes and feels Sam's chest rising and falling along his side and he smiles.

Yeah. Sam makes everything worth it.


End file.
